Most Gwyneth!

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering how I, Gwyneth Paltrow, within two weeks, could be named both the Most Hated Celebrity, by Star, and the World’s Most Beautiful Woman, by People. Well, here’s the answer: these things are beyond my control. But the people of the world have voted.

Did I campaign for my titles? Yes, I’ll be honest, because, as anyone who’s ever read my blog, Goop, which is a combination of “good” and “poop,” will tell you, I’m a firm believer in hard work and discipline. So, when I first heard rumors about the possibility of a People cover, I did start a whispering campaign. At parties and premières, I’d murmur to strangers, “Doesn’t Halle Berry look gorgeous? For her age?,” or “Don’t you love Charlize Theron’s cropped, boyish hairdo? Wouldn’t she be popular in prison?,” or “I applaud Kate Middleton for not worrying about gaining a few extra pounds during her pregnancy. Wait, what did you say? She’s only having one baby?”

As the race narrowed, I began cold-calling voters in other countries. I reached a tribeswoman in Kenya and I told her, “If you vote for me, I will slaughter your enemies—with my mind.” I dialled an imprisoned political dissident in North Korea and said, “In your next forbidden text, why not say, ‘We must end tyranny, and have you seen Gwyneth’s butt? And she still loves pasta!’ ” And late one evening I managed to track down an elderly postmistress in the Australian outback and said, “G’day, mate! Don’t I even sound beautiful?” When she asked, “Who are you, and how did you get this number?,” I replied, “I am the spiritual voice of your ancestors, and we believe that, while Nicole Kidman is still very attractive, Gwyneth’s smile has the ability to heal certain sprains and melanomas.”

As the elections approached, I stepped up my game. I spoke with my dear friend Beyoncé, who was last year’s Most Beautiful, and I explained that, while she was still stunning, it’s 2013. Then I asked her to see if Jay-Z would write a rap song to support my candidacy within the urban community, and I suggested the sample lyric “Yo, peeps, just be dutiful, cuz Gwynnie’s so beautiful, vote for Gwyneth instead of doing drugs.” I also had lunch with Justin Bieber, to nail down the younger demographic. When Justin visited the Anne Frank House, in Amsterdam, he wrote in the guestbook that he hoped Anne would have been a Belieber. Since some people regarded this as naïve, and even insensitive, I recommended that Justin return to the house and write, “I bet if Anne Frank were alive today she’d want to have thighs like Gwyneth’s, and she’d love ‘Iron Man 3’!”

Finally, during a visit to the White House, I cornered the President and said to him, “Get real—because of the whole sequester thing, your approval rating is in the toilet. There’s only one way out. You have to tell the world that despite global warming, grinding poverty, and rampant terrorism, people of all races, religions, and whatever can still agree on one thing: that, even at forty, Gwyneth looks like a teen-ager. She’s happier and healthier than she’s ever been, thanks to working out two hours a day, five days a week—and she doesn’t starve herself.”

With Most Beautiful in the bag, I concentrated on grabbing Most Hated. I felt that I already had an edge, because I’m lovely, articulate, rich, Oscar-winning, married to a rock star, and the mother of two adorable children. What’s not to hate?

Still, I was nervous about my competition in the Most Hated poll, especially Matt Lauer, because I’d heard that in his negotiations with NBC he’d asked for the program to be called “The Today Show Without Ann Curry.” I could also feel Taylor Swift breathing down my neck, because she was about to release a single based on her on-again, off-again relationship with Nelson Mandela, called “It’s Always About You (No More Older Men).”

But I had to be brutal. I know that sometimes, in the press, I refer to myself as a working mom, but was that enough to earn Most Hated? Sure, I can be irritating, and sometimes my voice has a certain lazy boarding-school drawl, and once in a while I use outdated teen-age slang, like “gnarly” and “rad.” But am I a shoo-in? I asked my husband to be totally honest and tell me if I deserved to win Most Hated, and he said, “Sweetheart, why are you so down on yourself?” Of course, he said it in his sparkling English accent, which for a second I considered adopting, because it certainly irked people when Madonna did it.

I ran to my therapist, and I begged her, “Can I really have it all? Most Beautiful and Most Hated?” She paused and then said, “You know, I’ve treated Jennifer Lopez, John Mayer, and the entire Kardashian family, along with a supermodel who refers to overweight people as sofas. So I know what you’re up against.” “And?” I said, hoping against hope. In response, she held up her pad, in which she’d doodled a sketch of me, beaming, with horns and a tail. I wanted to hug her, and recommend a more effective facial scrub.

But it’s all just a crapshoot. Sure, I can fantasize about being as beautiful as Angelina Jolie and as vicious as Chris Brown, so I could punch myself in the face. But all I can really do is just keep on keepin’ on, wearing sheer gowns on the red carpet and then telling Ellen about how my staff had to track down a razor. I like to look nice and, as I told People, I still enjoy taking baths with my kids and finding happiness in life’s little moments. I don’t need to be the Most Beautiful or the Most Hated or the Most Anything. I only wish that whenever I appear on the cover of a magazine the headline could simply read, “Not You.” ♦

Paul Rudnick contributes regularly to the magazine. He is at work on the book for the upcoming Broadway musical adaptation of “The Devil Wears Prada.”